


Bite The Hand

by aliensinflowercrowns



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: .... kind of, Foster Care, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, corporate sanctioned friendships, elias as a father figure?? more like elias as a bother figure, elias is a big bitch on main, georgie melanie and jon best friends squad, i take the eldritch entities.... and i make them babey, jon has insomnia and gets into shananegains, kidnapping by adoption, kind of, kind of??, lil bit of stockholm syndrome, martin needs help, peter and elias are bastard monster husbands and they are Not Valid, so does jon tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-05-13 10:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19249288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliensinflowercrowns/pseuds/aliensinflowercrowns
Summary: Elias has been having trouble with his current Archivist. He has all but given up on her, and the only reason she's still alive is that he can't find a better option. She has too much agency, he decides. Too stubborn. Elias needs an Archivist that he can mold to his desires. One who will not bite the hand that feeds them as Gertrude does. He decides on fourteen-year-old orphan, Jonathan Sims.Peter can't let his husband have all the fun. He wants a human child to corrupt as well, and Martin Blackwood is the perfect candidate.





	1. Jonathan Sims, Maker Of Good Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> I'm already working on like a ton of fics but I listened to all of the TMA in like two weeks and decided I needed to write this. I'm totally making this shit up as I go but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Jon was having trouble sleeping. Again. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually slept throughout the night. Any time he began to fall into the sweet, drowsy embrace that tugged at the edges of his eyes, something miniscule would break the fragile balance in his body and cause him to snap awake. 

The sounds of the other boys sleeping in the room got under his skin. While he understood, logically, that the soft breathing of his roommates wasn’t something that he could help, he was annoyed nonetheless, as if the existence of the other children was something created to bother him specifically. In addition, the bed that he was confined to was incredibly irritating. Jon twisted and turned, trying to find some semblance of comfort. 

He finally gave up on sleep, tossing the itchy cotton blank to the side in a melodramatic fashion. He knew that this was pointless, as he was confined to the small bedroom with three other boys until his foster mother came at seven in the morning to unlock the door. Still, Jon hoped that his small act of indolence could be seen as a message to the universe that he refused to consign himself to its arbitrary sleeping patterns. 

Jon huffed and stared at the ceiling. He hated being bored. Unfortunately, he was bored often. Jon was not easily satisfied, a fact that inconvenience both him and whatever adult he whose problem he currently was. Jon didn’t want to be so difficult, but he couldn’t help it if so much of the world was so uninteresting. 

He squirmed once again, trying in vain to contort his body into a shape that would lull him to sleep, before flopping out of the bed. He knew that getting up was risky. If he made any noise and woke any of the other boys up, he would probably get a broken nose. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

Jon didn’t consider himself to be a problem child, but everyone else seemed to. He had an awful tendency to get into fights. He asked far too many questions and accepted far too little answers. For these, he earned himself more scars than any other fourteen-year-old he knew as well as a spot in the Westminster Boy’s Home for Adolescents, an institution whose level of warmth was reflected in its name. 

Jon’s parents had died when he was a toddler, and while he had a grandmother, she was too old to actually care for him. They saw each other every few months for a while, she would bring him books that he tried to read but ultimately found uninteresting, and he would lie to her and tell her he was doing fine when in reality he hadn’t managed to stay in a foster home for more than six months since age eight and had officially been declared as “hopeless” by his caseworker when she thought he couldn’t hear her. 

Jon silently slipped into his beat-up trainers and pulled on a ratty jumper that his best friend Georgie had nabbed from a charity shop for him. She was a resident of the Westminster Girl’s Home for Adolescents. The two of them had met at a “managing anger” seminar they’d been forced to go to a few years back and Jon was pretty sure she was one of two people in the world who would notice if he died (the third person being their other friend, Melanie). 

He crept towards the bedroom door and gave it a weak try. Locked. Duh. Jon sighed and turned towards the singular window. It didn’t have bars on it, which was a step up from his lost foster home, but Jon had no doubt that it would be locked. He tried it regardless. To his immense surprise, the window opened, a rush of wet, night air cooling Jon’s face. 

He knew that he shouldn’t damage the small bit of goodwill he had with his foster parents by sneaking out through the mercifully unlocked window just because he was a bit bored, but at the same time, he trusted himself not to get caught. And if he did, that was a problem for future Jon, who probably deserved it anyway for being so daft. He silently slipped out of the window and climbed shakily down the side of the building until he was able to jump down, his feet landing on the spongy grass with a soft thud. 

Jon smiled to himself. The street was completely dark, even the moon and the stars were obscured by the thick rainclouds. Jon had never been afraid of the dark. He supposed that indifference to darkness was a prerequisite to being an insomniac. He stuck his hands in the pocket of his jumper and began to walk aimlessly down the street. 

It was raining, but it wasn’t a heavy, oppressive rain. Rather, it felt as if one was walking into a wall of wet, so many tiny drops flying around from all directions that Jon only felt slightly misted. His dark hair was shaggy and fell into his face, damp from the rain. He stopped for a moment to push it out of his face and wipe his fogged glasses. 

That’s when he heard them. 

First, the loud shutting of a heavy oak door. Then, a voice, dark and deep, very posh, like the kind of man that Jon very deeply wished to be and was incredibly aware that he wasn’t. He sounded cross. 

“Really, Peter,” he said. “This is all quite childish. Can’t we meet inside?” 

A shiver ran down Jon’s spine. His voice was like warm honey on a sore throat. Jon wanted to walk towards the man and tell him all his secrets. 

_ What the hell?  _ Jon thought. He shook his head and crouched down, hiding behind a large tree, hoping that the darkness would shield him. He had no reason to be afraid of this man, but he was nonetheless. 

“I wanted to meet on neutral territory, dear,” said another voice, cheerfully. Jon had to fight to hear what the second man was saying, as his head was immediately filled with static when he started talking. Jon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate. The second man continued. “You should be glad that I agreed to the steps of your precious institute. You have the advantage here, still wrapped in the embrace of your precious Eye.” 

Jon could almost  _ hear _ the first man’s eye-roll. “What do you want, Peter.” 

“I have come, Elias, to offer a warning,” the second man, Peter, said. The high, static whine continued ringing through Jon’s ears. 

“What could you possibly know that I don’t?” Elias asked. 

“Your Archivist. She is meddling in things that she shouldn’t be.” 

“And what? Are you going to tell me that if she doesn’t stop she might get herself killed?” 

Peter laughed gently. The hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stood up. “Of course not,” he said. “She’s going to get herself killed. I’m just telling you that you need to… decide by whom’s hand her end comes.” There was a pause. “Of course, you have ample amounts of time. Years, maybe, if she plays her cards right. But I know that everyone would appreciate if you would keep. Your dog. On a. Shorter. Leash.” 

Once again, the two men went quiet. Jon was filled with a burning desire to peak around the tree he was hiding behind and see them. He had to know if there was some vital part of the conversation that he was missing, but he forced himself to stay back. Were they really talking about killing someone? Or that someone was going to be killed? 

“I would love to talk more about your thinly veiled threats,” Elias said. “But, unfortunately, we are not alone.” 

Ice shot through Jon’s veins. There was no way that Elias had seen him. Had he known that Jon was there the entire time? What was he going to do? Would he kill him? Would he call the police? 

“Jonathan Sims,” Elias said, and Jon missed the rest of the sentence because he was immediately running down the street, not caring who saw or heard him. He didn’t stop running until he was back in his bed, the window firmly shut and locked. Jon stared at the wall, curled up in his bed, his trainers still on, with his heart hammering in his chest. He did not sleep. 

 

***

 

“I swear, Georgie, he  _ knew my name _ ,” Jon said the next day at lunch. He threw the red tray piled with unappetizing food on the dirty corner table where Georgie, Jon, and Melanie sat, trying to avoid the eyes of any of the other children who found it a fun game to pick on them for their ratty clothes, malnourished bodies, and generally bookishness. 

“Spooky,” Georgie said. 

Jon rolled his eyes. “I hate that word. You know I hate that word.” 

Georgie ignored him. “Do you think he was a ghost?” she asked. 

“A ghost?” Melanie said, sitting down next to Georgie. “Who’s a ghost? Where’s the ghost? What the ghost?” 

Georgie giggled. She and Melanie were both obsessed with the supernatural. Jon didn’t know if either of them actually believed anything, but they had dragged him on enough excursions into abandoned buildings, armed only with a squirt gun that George claimed was full of holy water and Melanie’s shitty camcorder, for Jon to believe they were invested to a hazardous degree. 

“Guys, I’m being serious,” Jon half whined. 

“Serious about what?” Melanie asked. “What’s happening? Seriously, I missed the first part of this conversation.” 

“Jon saw a ghost,” Georgie said. “Two, actually. They knew his name.” 

“It wasn’t a ghost!” Jon insisted, loud enough to attract stares from neighboring tables. “It wasn’t a ghost,” he said again, quieter. “It was just two… incredibly unnerving old men. Possibly planning a murder. And one of them knew my name! He knew I was there, and he said my name.” 

“And then what happened?” Melanie asked, leaning over the table towards Jon. 

“He ran away,” Georgie said, cocking her head. 

Jon glared. “It was self-defense!” he said. “Did I mention they were planning a murder?!”

“Possibly,” Georgie said. “Possibly planning a murder.” 

“Okay,” Melanie said, already engrossed. “When did this happen, where was it, who were these two men, tell me everything, Sims.” 

Jon sighed. “Last night, around two in the morning, somewhere by the riverbank, and I don’t know. Their names were Peter and Elias.” 

“By the riverbank is not helpful, Jon,” Melanie said. 

“What do you mean helpful?” Jon asked. “We are not going there, this is not… not… not a case!” 

“Are you kidding,” Georgie said. “This is totally a case.” 

Jon sighed. “I dunno,” he said. “They said something about… an institute?” 

“An institute by the riverbank,” Melanie mumbled. 

“But it doesn’t matter!” Jonathan said. “It was just a weird thing that happened. In fact, it was probably a dream. We’re not going to investigate it, and I am never going to hear about Peter or Elias again.” 

Georgie opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by the P.A. system. 

“Will Jonathan Sims please come to the front office. Jonathan Sims to the front office.” 

Immediately, the two possible ghosts were forgotten. 

“Oooh,” Melanie said. “You’re in trouble!” 

“Probably cause he snuck out last night,” Georgie said. 

“Oof. Have fun in prison Jon.” 

Georgie giggled. “We’ll make sure to visit you!” 

Jon rolled his eyes and half-heartedly flipped his friends off before pushing himself from the table and exiting the cafeteria. He walked down the halls of the school, navigating his way to the front office. 

He wasn’t a regular in the front office by any means. Jon tended to fly under the radar at school. He had transferred so many times that he didn’t really bother anymore. He was smart, smarter than most kids, but rarely found himself interested in his assignments, so he didn’t bother to try with them. He tried to imagine why he was being called down. If his foster parents had found out that he had snuck out, they would wait until after school to confront him. He hadn’t forgotten his backpack or his books, and even if he had, he wouldn’t expect anyone to bring them to him. Maybe his grandmother had died. She was rather old, and while it would make him sad, it did seem to be the most logical explanation. 

He was surprised when he arrived at the front office to see his foster mother, Pamela, chatting idly with a tall man in a smart gray suit. He had salt and pepper hair stylishly combed and wore small, golden spectacles. A dark gray wedding band was fastened around his left-hand ring finger. 

Jon’s face screwed up in confusion. He stood for a moment, watching the two of them, not sure what to do at all. Finally, he spoke up. 

“Um,” he said. “‘Scuse me?” 

“Oh!” Pamela said, turning towards him. “Jon! Darling! It’s so good to see you!” 

She wrapped him into a tight hug. Jon’s face contorted further. He hadn’t been hugged by anyone in… he didn’t remember the last time. He wouldn’t be surprised if the last time he’d been hugged was by his parents. 

“Um,” Jon said, once she’d released him. “Hello, Pamela. Who is this?” 

Pamela laughed. “Don’t be silly, dear. You know Elias.” 

Jon felt his stomach drop. His eyes widened. 

“Yes,” the tall man said, his voice all too familiar to Jon. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know me, Jon.”

Jon wanted to run, but he was rooted to the spot. He knew that he would hardly get out the door before being caught be Elias or Pamela or one of the school staff… and even if he did, where could he go? Clearly, Elias could find him anywhere. 

“I know you two have been close for quite some time,” Pamela said, talking absolute nonsense. “And so it was no surprise when Elias came by today and told me that he wanted to adopt you.” 

“ _ What– _ ” Jon squeaked. 

“And I know it’s a little unorthodox but he was just so excited that once we got all the paperwork signed we came over to pick you up!” 

Jon shook his head. “No, no, no, Pamela, I don’t know this man, I don’t know what you’re talking about and I do  _ not _ want to go with him!” 

“Jon?” Pamela asked. “What are you talking about?” Her voice stayed sickly sweet and overbearing, completely opposite to the pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps, no-nonsense woman that he’d gotten to know over the past few weeks. She stared at him, and he noticed that there was something  _ off _ about her eyes. They were glassy and unfocused as if she was sleeping with her eyes opened. 

Jon felt as if he was going to throw up. Elias had… done something to her. Hypnotized her somehow. 

“Pamela,” he said, desperate. “Pamela, please, please he did something to you and you have to snap out of it.” She continued to look at him with her head cocked slightly and her eyes dull, not absorbing anything he was saying. Jon took a shaky step back. He turned on his heel and began to run down the empty corridors of the school. If he could just get back to the cafeteria, Melanie and Georgie would help him. He could stay with Melanie. Her parents were always out of town and her house was out of the way. Or he could somehow steal some money and take a bus far away. He could go to his grandmother, maybe she could help him. He just needed to be near people, if he was near people then Elias couldn’t… kidnap him? Kill him? Whatever he meant to do. 

“Help!” Jon cried out, hoping to alter a nearby teacher. “Someone! Help!” But no one seemed to hear him. “Help me!” 

The corridor seemed to go on forever. Jon rushed past classroom doors with no coherent thoughts running through his head. At the end of the corridor, he saw it. A bright yellow glowing door. He knew that going through that door would… would take him somewhere Elias couldn’t get him. He ran towards it, reaching for the doorknob when he heard Elias’s posh voice say “oh no you don’t,” and suddenly Jon was swooped up in Elias’s arms, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

Jon knew he was not a large boy. He was rather weedy, tall for his age but incredibly skinny. His clothes hung off of him and he wasn’t exactly gaining much muscle from reading under his desk. Still, he was somewhat indignant at how easily Elias intercepted him. 

Somewhat indignant and very, very afraid. 

“Stop!” Jon yelled. He beat his arms against the man’s back. “Someone! Help me!” He kicked against Elias’s chest. 

“Alright,” Elias said. His voice grasped Jon, invading his brain, and causing his body to go slack. “That’s enough of that.” 

Jon felt himself relax completely. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, he was trapped in his body. No one seemed to notice as Elias carried Jon out of the school and deposited him in his car. 

“You seem exhausted,” Elias said, as he strapped himself into the front seat. Jon tried to project “fuck-you” energies. “Why don’t you take a nap?” 

The car began to move, and Jon fell instantly asleep. 


	2. Martin Blackwood Deserves Love and Support 2kForever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has trouble acclimating to his new situation. Martin makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for the support from the last chapter!! i don't usually update this fast but i'm riding the inspiration wave as long as it'll take me rn. 
> 
> the second part of this chapter is p dark so trigger warning for: bugs/spiders, corpses, manipulation, references to child abuse and references to suicidal ideation

Jon woke up slowly, in a large, unfamiliar bed with a soft down duvet covering him. Soft, hazy light filled the room, coming from a fancy light fixture on the ceiling. There were no windows. The walls were painted a creamy white and a large rug covered the floor. An old fashioned wardrobe was pushed into the corner and a large bookshelf that was half filled took up most of the wall next to Jon. 

He was wearing the same clothes he had worn earlier, and his trainers were neatly lined up next to the heavy metal door that was opposite the bed. His head felt foggy, as though he had been drinking the night before and woke up still a bit buzzed. 

Something tugged at his brain. A sense of… wrongness. He was forgetting something. Something important. He climbed out of bed, throwing the duvet aside, and walked towards the door. The door was out of place compared to the coziness of the room. His room, he supposed. It was large, heavy, and metal, and looked like something that belonged in a science lab or on a spaceship. Jon tried the handle, and, when he found it locked, everything came flooding back to him. 

Immediately, he was pounding on the door and yelling. He had no idea where he was, no idea how much time had passed. He could be in a completely different country. He could be underwater or trapped inside a mountain. He punched and kicked at the door. He went to the bookshelf and threw every book at the door, even though it pained him. He opened the wardrobe, and, finding that it was filled with clothes that seemed perfectly tailored to his measurements, threw them at the door as well, and then overturned the wardrobe for good measure. 

He was working on pushing the mattress off of the bed, shouting all the while, when Elias’s loud voice filled the room. 

“Are you  _ quite done, _ Jonathan?” 

At first, Jon was totally convinced that Elias was projecting directly into his head, but then he noticed the camera and speaker that were nestled in the corner of the room and was somehow more creeped out by that. 

“You kidnapped me!” Jon yelled, indignant. 

“I adopted you,” Elias responded, his tone ever pleasant. “And frankly, you should be grateful. That place you were in… disgusting. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone there succumbed to corruption within the year.”

“Succumbed to the… you brainwashed Pamela!” Jon gestured wildly as if his increased animation would do anything to help his situation. 

“Jonathan, please,” Elias said, sounding like he thought Jon was being unreasonable. 

Jon frowned. “I am trapped. In. A.  _ Cage _ !” 

“It’s hardly a cage,” Elias responded. “The room I provided you with was quite nice, in my opinion, before you threw your little… tantrum. I fully expect you to clean all of this up, by the way.” 

“Tantrum!” Jon spat. “I think that this is a perfectly reasonable response for someone who… who has been… I…” he tugged at his hair and then stared the camera straight down the lens. “You are a bastard. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

“Frequently. Now, are you  _ quite done _ ? Because I was going to have Rosie let you out, get you some food and take you for a tour, but if you’re going to act like a child, well then I’ll have to put you in  _ time-out _ like a child, I suppose.” 

“Fuck you,” Jon spat. He was quiet for a minute. He stared at the metal door, as if he could burn a hole in it with his glare. “Yes, I’m done,” he finally muttered. 

A moment later he heard the slight click of an electronic lock, and the door swung open. A short, chubby woman with curly hair walked in, looking slightly frazzled. 

“My,” she said. “You… you really did make a mess of things.” 

Jon glared at her with his arms crossed. He knew he was being rude, but he couldn’t quite find it in himself to care. 

The woman chuckled awkwardly. 

“I’m Rosie,” she said. “I work as, uh, the receptionist, in the archives. And now, I suppose, as your… well. I’m to show you around the Institute. Help you with anything you need. A little above my paygrade if you ask me but, I suppose I can’t complain. I didn’t realize that Mr. Bouchard had a son.”

Jon put it together that she must have been referring to Elias when she said “Mr. Bouchard.” It fit him. A pompous name for a pompous bastard. 

“It’s a recent development,” Jon said. 

“Oh,” Rosie said, her smile fading a bit. “It’s, uh, Jonathan, isn’t it?” 

Jon sighed and walked up to the door. “Just Jon,” he said. He began to walk down the hallway. Rosie made a sound of surprise, and then quickly caught up with him. 

“So, where am I, exactly?” 

“Well, generally, you’re in London–”

“Thank god for that–”

“Specifically, you’re in the Magnus Institute, and precisely, you’re in the Archives. Mr. Bouchard converted a storage room to serve as a bedroom for you.” 

“The Magnus Institute?” Jon said. “Isn’t that place reserved like… exclusively for crazy people and crackheads?” 

“Not exclusively,” Rosie said. “Though that is a… key demographic of ours.” 

“The Magnus Institute,” Jon repeated, laughing. Of course. His life was already so goddamned weird. 

“So, this is the archival office,” Rosie said, opening a glass door to a cramped room piled wall to wall with filing cabinets and overflowing boxes. A man with badly dyed black hair wove through the stacks. “They’re very busy here, so you must make sure not to bother them.”

“Rosie?” the man said, finally noticing them. 

“Oh, hello Gerard,” Rosie said. 

“Who’s this?” the man, Gerard, asked. “He’s not here to record a statement, is he?” 

Jon rolled his eyes. “I certainly hope not,” he said. 

Rosie chuckled awkwardly. That seemed to be her specialty. “No, no. This is Jon. He’s… Elias’s son.” 

Jon rolled his eyes again. 

“Elias’s son?” Gerard said. He suddenly seemed very interested. He leaned down to be eye level with Jon, which Jon found very patronizing. “You don’t look like Elias,” he said. “Or Peter, for that matter. How would they even… you know what, I don’t want to know. So, are you Eye, or Lonely? Or both? Or something else entirely?” 

Jon glared. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m not Elias’s son, he–”  _ kidnapped me,  _ Jon tried to say, but the words died, and he made a strange gasping sound. “He–”  _ kidnapped me. Kidnapped me! _

Jon began to cough violently as he tried to force the words out. For some reason, he couldn’t say them. He had no idea what Elias had done to him, but he’d definitely done something. 

“Oh dear,” Rosie said. “Are you alright, dear? Do you need some water?”

Jon waved her off and regained composure. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.” 

Gerard regarded him with curiosity. 

“You should come and talk to us sometime, kid,” he said. “Gertrude might be able to help you with… that.” 

“Come on, Jon,” Rosie said, leading him back out the door. She pointed at a door across from the archival office. “That’s Gertrude’s office, she’s the head archivist, it would be best not to disturb her. That’s where the, um, crazy people and crackheads as you put it, record or write their statements, and this is the general archives. Oh, there’s Sasha at the desk. Hello, Sasha!” 

“Where does that door lead?” Jon asked, pointing at the bright yellow door nestled next to Gertrude’s office. It looked strangely familiar, and Jon felt the need to drift towards it and explore what was inside. 

“What door?” Rosie asked. She turned to where Jon was pointing, but when he looked back the yellow door was gone. 

“Um,” Jon said. “Nevermind, I suppose.” 

Rosie shook her head. “Right, well, let me introduce you to Sasha.” 

Sasha was a young woman, tall, with dark hair and glasses. She smiled at Jon, and though she obviously found his presence a bit odd, invited him to come by for a chat anytime. “With only Gerard and Gertrude for company, well, I find myself going a bit daft!” 

Rosie continued on the tour, showing Jon the rest of the Institute. He was particularly intrigued by artefact storage, more so after he was told never to go in there without supervision, and the library. Rosie said that he was welcome to the library whenever he wanted, and Elias had specifically said that he was allowed to check out any book he pleased and take them back to his room. 

“Alright, well, time for dinner, I suppose,” she said. “I’ll be honest, this whole thing was quite short notice, and I’m not allowed to take you out of the Institute, but I believe there are things to make you a peanut butter and honey sandwich in the break room?”

“What, Elias doesn’t want to deign me with his presence?” Jon asked. 

Rosie’s face softened. “Oh dear,” she said. “I know that it’s difficult. I don’t know what the situation with your dad is, quite exactly, but I promise you he truly is a nice man, once you get to know him.” 

Jon wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was sure she was lying. 

“Well, let’s go then.” 

In less time than he would’ve liked, Jon found himself once again in the storage-room-turned-bedroom. 

“Hey, asshole!” Jon yelled directly at the camera. “You’re gonna kidnap me and then you’re not even gonna see me! You’re a bastard!” It was not lost on Jon that he could say the word  _ kidnap _ when he was alone. Or, when he was alone save for Elias. 

“Clean your room, Jonathan,” Elias’s voice crackled and filled the room. 

“Are you joking?” Jon said. 

“Clean your room,” Elias said again, and Jon felt the hairs on his arms stick up as he began to push the wardrobe back up. 

“Good,” Elias said.

Jon wondered if Elias actually wanted the room clean, or if he just wanted Jon to know that he could make him clean it. 

 

***

 

It had been three days since she’d died, and Martin had not left the house. The kitchen was disgusting. Unwashed dishes, cobwebs everywhere, rotting food. The electricity had been turned off weeks ago. His mother sat in the middle of it, on the couch, her mouth and eyes opened. Maggots crawled in and out of her flesh, hollowing her out. They’d eaten her eyes first. Her sagging, sallow skin melted into the flea-riddled couch. 

Martin had tried so hard to take care of her. For the last six years, all he’d been doing was taking care of her. He had lost all of his friends, he was barely hanging on in school, and he didn’t remember any hobbies he may have once had. But it still wasn’t enough. One day, while he was feeding her soup, she had spasmed violently, thrown up on herself, and stopped breathing. Martin had screamed, dropped the soup on the floor, and locked himself in his bedroom. He had only left to use the bathroom, and once to creep into the kitchen and collect food for himself. 

The bugs stayed mostly in the rest of the house. If they did venture into his room, the spiders would eat them. There had always been spiders in his room, but now they were everywhere. All of his surfaces and corners were covered in cobwebs. He would wake up with cobwebs on his body. The spiders crawled over and around him. He’d had to shake them out of his hair when he’d showered, the one time he’d gone to shower. He had stripped down and turned on the water only to find brackish, slimy, dark seawater spew from the showerhead. He’d turned off the shower immediately and sprinted back into his room, clothing forgotten. 

Martin was terrified. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He was fourteen, his mother was dead, and his father was gone. He had no other family that he knew of. He would probably be sent to a home. That is if he didn’t get charged with killing his mother. He hadn’t meant to kill his mother, but she was always talking about how he wasn’t taking good care of her, that he was incompetent, and if she died it would be because of his inattentiveness. And now she was dead, and it was most definitely his fault. What would the police think of a boy who had killed his own mother? Maybe they would electrocute him. Martin didn’t know if capital punishment was legal in Britain, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they made an exception for mother-killers either way. 

He knew that he should call the police, regardless. At some point, someone was bound to notice. The school would see that he hadn’t been in. Or, at least, he hoped they would. Martin didn’t really speak up in school, and he was known for missing, but still, they would notice if he stopped coming in altogether. 

Or one of the neighbors would notice the smell, at least. Or he would run out of food and water and would have to either go to Asda or starve. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, to starve. What purpose did he have now that his mother was dead? 

Martin shook his head. That was dark. 

A large, plump, black spider crawled up on his shoulder. It nuzzled his cheek slightly. Martin felt a bit comforted, which, he knew was weird, as the correct response to having a spider on your person was to freak out, but he was taking all of the connection he could get at the moment, without a thought as to where it came from. 

And then, someone knocked at the door. 

Martin’s heart skipped a beat. He grabbed a cobwebby blanket and pulled it up to his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut. If he ignored them, they would go away. Probably just a door to door salesman. Or a Mormon. He would be fine. If he just shut his eyes, it would all go away. 

Another knock. Louder this time. Closer, somehow, too, as if the sound was being sent directly into his head, rattling around his brain. 

Martin clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. It was definitely the police, come to take him away and lock him up.

Knock. 

And then the sound of the door swinging open. 

Footsteps. Leading towards his door. 

A knock on his bedroom door. Powerful and patient. Martin shook his head. This wasn’t happening. A spider crawled into his hair. This wasn’t happening. 

Static filled Martin’s head. 

“Martin?” A voice said. “Martin, I’m going to come in.” 

He didn’t recognize the voice, but it clearly knew him. It was male, not too deep but not high either, and sounded positively cheerful for someone who had just walked past a bug-ridden corpse. 

He heard the door open, and someone stepped inside. 

“Hello, Martin,” the voice said. “Come now, open your eyes.” 

Martin dropped the blanket and very slowly opened his eyes. The man in front of him was tall and stately. He was quite built, with dark hair and a bushy beard. He wore dark clothes and a long trenchcoat. 

“Oh, Martin,” he said, clucking maternally. He walked over and sat on the edge of Martin’s bed. Several spiders scuttled away. “What have you done?” He stroked Martin’s cheek gently. His hand was cold. 

“What…” Martin said. “What do you mean?” 

“You’ve pushed everyone away. They haven’t even noticed that you’re gone! Your only friends are… common house spiders. How pathetic. How dreadfully, dreadfully  _ lonely _ .” Martin shivered. The man continued. “But, of course, you never minded much, because you had your mother. And you loved her so, so much. It was a little embarrassing how much you cared for her. While other boys pushed their parents away, it was her who wanted to get rid of you! One could think she might be happy to die if it meant she could finally be free of her pathetic, sorry excuse for a son.” Martin couldn’t move. He stared at this man, this stranger in his home, telling him things that no one should know. He felt hot tears fall down his cheeks. “And when she did die, oh, that’s when it hit you, didn’t it? The dreadfulness of your situation. What’s saddest about it is how it wasn’t even that different, was it? You were so alone already… so scared… nothing has really changed, except, of course, now you’re a killer.” 

“What?” Martin said, voice barely there. 

The man frowned. “Yes, it’s all over the news. Lonely little Martin Blackwood, the boy with no friends, who murdered his poor, sweet mother, after keeping her hostage in the house.” 

Martin shook his head. “No… no that’s not–”

“Everyone knows. And no one is surprised. Always such a strange boy. Would rather spend his time with spiders than with the other children. And it makes sense. His mother must have known. Why else would a mother hate her own child so much? They’ve been trying to figure out a way to come here… to arrest you, take you off to prison, they’ve just been too scared. I mean, if a boy will kill his own mother… imagine what else he could be capable of.” 

Martin shook his head again. “No,” he said. “No, no it was an accident!” 

“Oh, I believe you, Martin. But no one else will. You’re lucky I’m the one who found you first. I’ve come to save you, you sad, lonely boy. I’ve come to take you home.” 

Martin sniffled. “You… what?” 

“Yes, Martin, I’ve come to take care of you. To take you away. To my house in Kent, where no one will ever find you. Of course, you could stay here, if you like. I’m sure the police will be here soon. Within the hour, perhaps. And the news crews as well. Everyone wants to see the face of the boy who killed his mother.” 

The man stood from the bed and began to walk towards the door. Martin scrambled after him, finding that he could now move again. 

“No!” Martin said. “Wait! Wait! I want, I want to come with you. Please.” 

The man smiled. “Alright then,” he said, voice bright and cheery. “No need to get your things, just come along.”

“Wait,” Martin said. “Wh-what’s your name?” 

“My name is Peter Lukas. And my car is running outside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! pls drop a kudos or a comment cause they fuel my soul <3


	3. Gerry Keay, Protector Of Idiot Teens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets someone new.

After a few days, Jon began to settle into a reluctant routine. He wasn’t allowed out of his room unless under direct supervision, so he spent most of his time sitting cross-legged on his large bed, reading. 

He still wore the same clothes that he’d had on when Elias had taken him, as they were the only clothes that were truly his, and while they were getting quite ripe, it was the principal of the thing that stopped Jon from changing. 

Rosie would come in and bring him breakfast, then a few hours later she would take him to lunch and to the library. He would sit in his room for a while, and then either Sasha or Rosie would fetch him for dinner. He had pointed out early on that Elias would have to let him out to use the bathroom, and a few hours later Rosie gave him a bell to ring whenever he needed to use the toilet. 

It was humiliating. 

As for Elias, Jon hadn’t heard from him since the first day. He would frequently glare at the blinking red light on the camera, as well as throw shoes at it, and say inflammatory things to try to provoke the man, but the speaker stayed silent. Jon felt that this was worse than if Elias was hovering over him. What, was he just going to kidnap him and then ignore him? Was Elias so worried that Jon would report him and his… and Peter for being suspicious that he would lock Jon in a basement forever?

“You know,” Jon said randomly, putting down his book. It was a penny dreadful published in the mid-1800s. Not the most challenging intellectually, but definitely something Jon hadn’t read before. “I’m going to have to go back to school, eventually. People… the government will notice if I stop showing up. They’ll knock on your door and send a truancy officer to make sure I show up again.” 

To Jon’s surprise, the speaker crackled on. 

“I’ve already registered you for homeschooling,” Elias said. 

Jon blinked a few times at Elias’s reappearance. He quickly recovered and then pressed on. 

“Well, then, you have a responsibility to teach me. You have to help me with like… maths and stuff.” 

“You  _ want _ to do maths?” 

Jon crossed his arms and pouted. “... No,” he said. “But you can’t just lock me up here. I’m bored. I’ll go mad.”

“You have your books.” 

“I’m bored with books!” 

Elias seemed perplexed. “Do you… want different ones?” 

Jon threw his hands up. 

“No! I want to do something else!” 

“But you  _ like _ books.”

“Agh!” Jon groaned, then grabbed a pillow and threw it over his face, hoping Elias could see how completely _ done with him _ Jon was. Was he being purposely obtuse? He heard the speaker click off. Jon rolled over and was about to pick the book up again when he noticed it. The yellow door, this time squished next to his wardrobe. 

Jon narrowed his eyes at the door. He felt a compulsion to walk towards it, to open it up and see where it would lead him. But if the past few days had taught him anything, it was that compulsions were not to be trusted. However, anything was better than boredom, even certain doom. Jon pushed himself off the bed and walked towards the door. He bit his lip as he studied it. Finally, he decided to give it one short knock. 

As soon as his fist connected with the surface, the door swung open, revealing a long hallway, with several flickering lights hanging from the ceiling. Jon felt the urge to walk inside but was pulled from it by a high whine, like a tea kettle, filling his ears. He stepped back, his hands instinctively flying to cover his ears, and saw a hand reach over and shut the yellow door. 

“Hello, Archivist,” said a voice that was like nails on a chalkboard. The voice seemed to bounce around the walls of the bedroom before landing on Jon’s ears. Jon blinked a few times, and finally, his eyes focused on a tall man with straw blonde hair and a smile that was far too wide on his round face. His fingers were steepled, and as Jon stared at them it seemed that he had more joints and knuckles than should be possible. 

“Ar… archivist?” Jon asked, coughing weakly. The ringing in his ears had dulled a bit, going from overpowering to a steady ache. 

“No,” the man said. “I suppose not. Not yet, at least,” he giggled. He walked towards Jon. Or, at least it seemed like he walked. At one point he was next to the yellow door, and then he took an impossibly large step and was next to Jon. He cupped Jon’s face in his spindly hand. “You’re not anything yet… not at all. Your brain is like clay!” 

Jon smacked the man’s hand away. “What the hell!” he said, stepping back. “Who are you?”

The man’s impossibly wide smile widened. “I’m Michael,” he said, full of glee. “I wasn’t always Michael, but I am now. And I’m finding Michael a  _ wonderful _ thing to be.” He reached over and ruffled Jon’s hair, still close to him as if Jon hadn’t moved at all. “But I’m far more interested in you. What could you be, Not-Archivist? Very angry, for sure. Curious… confused… and oh, oh dear Not-Archivist, so  _ lonely _ !”

“Get away from me!” Jon said, swatting at his hair. He stepped back towards the door to the bedroom but found himself backing into the bed instead. He shook his head violently, trying to banish the confusion and the high pitch whine that continued to rattle through his brain. “What are you? What do you want?” 

“So many questions! Mmm, I think, right now, I just want to watch!” He laughed, and it sounded deranged. “Isn’t that ironic! Yes, I’ll watch, and then, when I decide that it’s time,  _ I’ll kill you! _ ” 

Believe it or not, this was not the first time in his fourteen years of life that Jon Sims had been threatened with murder. This was, however, the first time that he got the feeling the person (?) who was threatening him really meant it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was completely dry. 

Michael held up one long, crooked finger. “Ah,” he said. “Until the next time, Not-Archivist!” 

He walked to the yellow door, opened it, and walked through, the door disappearing after him. The loud ringing in Jon’s ears finally subsided. The shutting of one door was immediately followed by the opening of another. Jon heard the click of the electronic lock and his bedroom door swung wildly open, Sasha and Gerard rushing through, Gerard armed with a bright red fire extinguisher and a mad look on his face. 

“Jon!” Sasha exclaimed. She ran towards him (he was somehow sitting on the bed), and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. She cradled his face and began to look him over, seemingly checking for cuts or bruises. “Are you alright?” she asked. 

Jon frowned and batted her hands away. “Yes,” he said. “I’m fine. I’m  _ fine _ , Sasha, please.” Sasha frowned but stopped touching him. Jon turned towards Gerard. “Is that a fire extinguisher?” 

Gerard’s pale face flushed. “I, er, I just grabbed the first pseudo-weapon I saw.” 

Jon shook his head. “Why did you need a weapon? Why are you two here?” 

“We,” Sasha said. “Er, Elias said you were in trouble. He sent us to help you. Apparently, the camera on went all staticky and the audio cut out. We’ve been trying to get into your room for five minutes.” 

Jon rolled his eyes. “So Elias had no idea what was happening to me and yet he sent the two of you down here instead of coming down himself.” 

Gerard grimaced, and put the fire extinguisher down. Sasha’s face fell. 

“Jon,” she started. 

“No, it’s fine,” Jon said, waving her off. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Well, as you can see, I’m fine, so you can get back to whatever important work you were doing.” 

“Jon,” Gerard said. “Did anything… happen? Anything odd?”

Jon surreptitiously glanced at the place where the yellow door had been. “No,” he lied, without knowing exactly why. “Probably just a camera malfunction.” 

Gerard studied him for a long second. Jon was pretty sure he knew that he was lying. 

“Hey,” Sasha said. “Do you maybe want to… come hang out in the archives? With us? Gertrude is in her office doing god knows what so we’re not really busy or anything.”

Jon frowned. “Oh, am I allowed out of my room now? Are you sure that we don’t need to get Elias to sign a permission slip?”

“What Elias doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Gerard says, and then smiles as if it’s a joke. 

“Well,” Jon said, trying to look as though his mind wasn’t made up 0.01 seconds after Sasha had gotten the words out of her mouth. “I suppose.” 

He followed Sasha and Gerard out of his bedroom and into the archival office. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up, and he felt more watched than when he was in the room with the camera. 

The room looked the same as Jon remembered it from Rosie’s tour. Sasha picked up a box of files and began to organize them, happily chatting to Jon. 

“So I transferred into research, and then a while later I heard that there was an opening for an archival assistant, apparently the previous one had disappeared, which sounds a little suspicious to me, but I don’t want to kick up a fuss. I liked research and wasn’t planning to apply as I don’t really have an archiving experience, but Elias personally told me to go for the position, and I thought, why not? Oh, Gerry, do you have that Patel statement? I have a supplemental I need to add to it.”

She drifted towards the back of the office, in search of Gerard. Jon padded over to the box of files that Sasha had abandoned and grabbed one of them that was sitting at the top. It was a manilla folder with several pages of stapled lined paper, covered in a messy scrawl. Jon pulled the papers out of the folder and sat down on the floor. 

There was no introduction, rather, it launched straight into a story. 

As Jon began to read, he found himself mumbling the words on the page under his breath. He hadn’t read aloud since he was a child, but for some reason, it just felt right. So right, he barely realized he was doing it. 

“ _...I used to work at Chiswick Library. I didn’t have such ideas back then, though. I just knew I loved books, always had, and so when the opportunity arose to work in my local library I jumped at the chance… _ ” 

By the time he reached the second page, he was so engrossed that he didn’t notice the quiet click of a recorder turning on. 

As he read the story–no, his mind supplied, the  _ statement– _ a strange feeling came over him. A feeling of being lightheaded and overstimulated at the same time. As if he was both on a mountain and underwater. He felt distant from his body, but at the same time seemed aware of every atom. His voice got louder and more animated without him noticing. As he sank deeper into the words he lost control over himself. His blood sang in his veins. His heart pounded. His head was full of cotton and he was submerged in static. 

“Jon!” Gerard’s voice pulled him out of his stupor. Jon dropped the statement and jumped slightly, then stared at Gerard owlishly. “Were you… reading a statement?” 

“Uh,” Jon said, feeling lightheaded. “No?” 

Gerard raised an eyebrow. Jon squirmed under his gaze. His palms were sweaty and his stomach churned. He felt similar to when he was ten and got a flu that kept him bedridden for almost a week. He’d been running a 42 degree Celcius fever and his foster parents had to bring him into A&E.  

“Alright.” Gerard was obviously skeptic. Jon got the feeling he didn’t trust him. “So you won’t mind if I just… take this. And file it.” He picked up the discarded statement next to Jon’s lap. 

“No!” Jon shouted, grabbing at Gerard’s hand. “I need that! I need to see how it ends! I have to know, I have to know what happen–” Jon wasn’t able to finish the sentence, as when he came to his feet the sudden movement resulted in him vomiting all over Gerard’s shoes and subsequently passing out into his arms. 

When Jon came to, he first noticed that he was wearing different clothes. His ratty jumper and old jeans had been discarded, and he was now dressed in soft, gray silk pajamas, probably more expensive than his entire old wardrobe put together. He allowed himself a moment to feel  _ super _ creeped out by the fact that someone must’ve undressed and then dressed him while he was unconscious. 

The second thing he noticed was that he was not alone. Someone was sitting on the edge of his bed, talking to another person standing over them. After a moment, Jon realized that these people were Elias and Gerard. 

“Listen, Bouchard,” Gerard was saying. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I don’t like it. Bringing a kid into this shit? That’s  _ low _ , even for you.”  

“Now, Mr. Keay, is that any way to speak to your boss?” Elias asked, ever calm and collected. The bastard. 

Gerard snorted. “What are you going to do? Fire me?” 

Elias continued as if Gerard hadn’t spoken. “And, if I recall correctly, you and Ms. James were the ones who let him into the archives, who left him unsupervised with statements lying around. I don’t see how I could be to blame for this. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must take care of Jon.”

Gerard’s eyes flicked over to Jon. His face softened for a moment, then hardened again as he turned back to Elias. “This conversation is not over,” he growled, and then left the room, his long leather jacket swirling behind him. 

Elias grimaced. “Dramatic that one,” he said. He looked at Jon, his face not quite kind, but not immediately threatening. “I’m sorry I haven’t been available lately. I’ve been… ironing out the terms of your staying here. I promise to be much more  _ attentive _ from here on out.”

“Why am I here?” Jon asked. “What do you want from me?”

Elias ignored him. “Your comment earlier was… enlightening. If I am to expect anything from you, I must first teach you. Or, at least, provide the tools for you to teach yourself. I heard you were quite taken with our archives.” 

Jon shrugged, trying to bury the intense excitement and curiosity. “They’re alright,” he said. “Pretty much anything beats this stupid room.” 

Elias nodded, a knowing and cryptic smile spreading across his face. “Of course. Well, in addition to your readings from the library, I thought I would drop a few more statements here with you. Only two to start with. Read them at your leisure, I’ll be by soon to discuss them.” He gestured to the wardrobe, where two manilla folders sat with a tape recorder on top of them. 

“I’ve also left a recorder. I’ve found they can be very… illuminating. For jotting down thoughts and such.”

Jon nodded, his eyes not leaving the statements. For some reason, the prospect of reading more filled him with giddy excitement. 

“Do make sure to pace yourself, Jonathan,” Elias said, standing up from off of his bed. “We wouldn’t want you to fall ill.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter today because if I didn't cut it here it would've been super long
> 
> pls drop a comment if you enjoyed, they keep me going. until next time <3


	4. Magic Fear God Powers Are A Good Way of Getting Information Out Of People. But So Is A Meat Cleaver.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> martin meets the family. jon catches up with several old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry that this chapter took a long time, but also it's like twice as long as usual so...

The drive to Kent was long and silent, with Martin sitting in the back of Peter Lukas’s luxurious car, feeling incredibly unremarkable in his hole-ridden tee shirt and scuffed up shoes. He stared at his knees, fidgeting with a loose thread at the hem of his shirt, and swallowing the words every time he felt that he should say something. 

The silence of the car was oppressive. Not even the sounds of the street leaked in. It was hot and sticky and coated Martin in a suffocating blanket. Peter didn’t seem to mind, appearing as if it didn’t even occur to him to so much as turn on the radio at any point during the hour and a half long ride.  

They turned down a long, narrow road that was devoid of any other cars. It looked as if it could stretch for eternity, lined with tall, imposing trees that reminded Martin of the forest in  _ Snow White _ . A heavy fog crept in around the car. It became denser and darker as they went down the road. By the time they reached “Lukas Manor” as the wrought iron gate prescribed it, the fog was so thick that Martin could barely see out the window. 

He could still make out enough of the house to see that it was larger and more stately than any building that Martin had ever been in, and he felt appropriately intimidated. 

Peter stopped the car and exited, starting towards the house. Martin sat shellshocked for a moment before he scurried out of the car and ran to Peter Lukas’s side. Peter walked at a leisurely pace, but with sure steps. He didn’t react to Martin appearing at his side. They reached the gate, and Peter Lukas pulled a comically large old fashioned key out of a pocket inside his coat. He unlocked the gate and it opened with an ominous creak that sent a shiver down Martin’s spine. 

They walked down the stone pathway to the manor. The fog that surrounded them was almost opaque. It crowded around Martin’s feet, and every so often he had to blink to refocus his eyes because it seemed as if it was creeping up and wrapping around his ankles, wrists, and neck. 

The house itself was cold and empty. Martin noticed a dining table set for upwards of ten people, but he saw no other residents. The wood creaked as he walked on it. Peter seemed to move silently, almost gliding around the ancient mansion. 

He led Martin up a grand staircase to the third floor of the house. He turned down a hall and stopped in front of a heavy, dark wooden door. 

“Now Martin,” he said. “This is your room. The bathroom is two doors down, and the kitchen is downstairs, as you saw.”

Martin turned to look at the door. He noticed with a drop in his stomach that it locked from the outside. 

“I’ll fetch you when I need you,” Peter gave him a wolfish smile that made Martin flinch instinctively. He began to walk down the hall, then stopped. “Oh,” he said, turning back. “And, Martin, do be sure to tell me if you see any spiders around.” His voice went dark. “There is no room for such pests in this house.” He flashed Martin a wide grin. “Cheers!” 

Martin swallowed, and then turned to the door. He pushed it open, and the hinges let out a loud groan. 

The room looked like something out of Jane Eyre. The stiff, velvet blue curtains were drawn halfway over the windows, casting long shadows across the room. The bed was tall and wooden with a dark quilt. There was a desk with gothic carvings, a closet, and wardrobe shaped similarly, and a tall bookshelf with a few ancient looking tomes upon it. Martin walked up to the window and opened the curtains, trying to let in a bit of light, as he didn’t see any lamps or ceiling lights around. There was a nightstand with an unlit candelabra, but Martin didn’t have any matches. It was foggy and dark outside, and the room didn’t lighten at all upon the opening of the curtains. Martin sighed and dropped them, allowing them to close once more. 

He kicked off his shoes and lined them up next to the bed, then hopped up on the bed. He had to literally hop, as the bedframe was at least four feet tall. Martin was not a boy, but he was only a boy nonetheless, and he hadn’t had a growth spurt in some time. The bed creaked under his weight, and Martin wondered how this house could manage to be so silent when it seemed that every piece of furniture had at least three built-in sound effects. 

He stared at the ceiling, wondering what, exactly, he was meant to be doing. The ceiling, like the rest of the house, was old. It was painted white, with a long crack that stretched from one end to another. Martin briefly imagined a scenario where the house cracked under its own weight, and the ceiling split in two, crushing him to death. He shook his head, banishing the unpleasant thought. It was when he stopped shaking his head that he noticed the fine, silvery thread, shining in what little light could sneak into the room. Martin followed the thread with his eyes to find a large black spider with a red marking decorating its thorax dangling above his bed. 

Martin wasn’t stupid. He knew what a black widow looked like and how dangerous they could be. But, rather than freaking out, he found himself saying: “Hello there. Followed me from home, did you?” 

He held out his hand. The spider detached itself from its web and rested on Martin’s palm. 

“It is nice,” Martin said, looking at it. “To have a friend.” The spider was twice the size of a one pound coin, and it took up a significant portion of Martin’s hand. Something about it was oddly calming. He laughed to himself. “Look at me,” he said. “A spider for a friend.” He shook his head. “No wonder they think I killed my mother.” 

As Martin looked at his eight-eyed friend, it began to dawn on him. 

“Oh. My. God,” he said. “What have I done?!” He abruptly launched himself from the bed and began to pace around the room. The spider seemed miffed at the sudden movement, but it didn’t physically react. Martin began to babble to himself, his heart rate skyrocketing as he went on. 

“I don’t know this man,” he said. “He could be… an ax murderer! Or a pedophile! Or a  _ tory _ ! What was I thinking? I can tell you what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking! I was… I don’t… come to think of it I can’t quite remember what I was… thinking…” he stopped pacing, his face screwing up in puzzlement. “It was like this fog came over me,” he said. “He just began to speak and I was so scared that I wasn’t… I couldn’t…” Martin’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, what if Peter Lukas is a witch?” 

He looked at the spider, then sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s stupid.” 

Martin sat on the floor, pulling his legs up to his chest and transferring the spider, whom he started to think of as Octavia, to the top of his kneecap. “I have massively fucked up, haven’t I?” He chuckled sardonically. “I mean, what kind of a loser willingly goes... who knows where, with a stranger? With a possible kidnapper? If I get killed… I guess I’ve no one to blame for myself, really.” 

There was a sharp knock on the door. Octavia scuttled down Martin’s pant leg and disappeared under the bed. 

Martin got to his feet and opened the door. Fog curled around his ankles and he saw Peter Lukas standing over him. 

“Martin,” he said, his face splitting into a grin. Martin felt a wash of sudden relief at seeing Peter. Why had he been so worried? Peter was a nice man. He was trying to save Martin. “Who were you talking to?”

Martin tried to swallow the embarrassed blush that threatened to overtake his cheeks. “N-No one,” he said. “Just… m’self, I guess.” 

“Mm. Well, I’ve just come to nab you for dinner. We’re having roasted pheasant.” 

Martin’s eyes lit up. He’d never eaten roast pheasant, but it had to be better than the stale Pringles and fruit snacks packages that he’d been eating for the past few days. He started out the door, but Peter held up a hand. He gave Martin a look that made Martin feel incredibly exposed. 

“Not dressed like a street urchin, son. Find something else to wear, then come down to the dining room.” 

This time, Martin could not keep from flushing with embarrassment. Of course, he needed to change. His clothes were dirty and old and he’d bought them from the charity shops anyway so they hadn’t even been nice before he’d worn them in his squalid home. He nodded, and Peter shut the door, leaving Martin to change. 

Martin came down the stairs a few minutes later, wearing a button-down cotton shirt as well as a pair of brown slacks that he’d found in the closet. He’d also combed his hair and splashed some water on his face, trying to get rid of the ever-present smudginess Martin had to him. 

When Martin reached the dining room, he saw upwards of ten people–men and women of various ages, though they were all adults–seated around the dining table, eating silently. They looked similar to Peter Lukas and dressed in nice, old fashioned clothing that was obviously expensive. They all had matching dour expressions on their faces and turned to face Martin in eerie synchronicity when he entered the room. 

“Martin!” Peter Lukas said, a smiling face in a choppy sea of disdain. “Sit!” He gestured to an empty place. Martin walked to it in a fashion that was as quiet and unobtrusive as he could manage. 

“Everyone,” Peter said. “This is Martin. He’ll be living with us now. He’s my… ward, I suppose.” He smiled to himself as if the concept amused him, then returned to addressing the rest of the (Martin assumed) Lukases. “That will be all,” he said, then sat back down. 

Everyone resumed eating without sound. 

Martin looked around and supposed that he should eat as well. He looked down at his plate. There were at least seven pieces of silverware. There were four forks, all of various sizes. Martin picked up the medium sized one and hoped that it wasn’t too obvious that he didn’t know what he was doing. He took a random knife as well and cut off a piece of pheasant. He was about to eat it when a hushed voice said: “Don’t do it! That’s how they get you. Once you eat the food you can never leave!” 

Martin’s eyes widened, and he dropped his fork. It was about to clatter loudly on his plate when the person next to him, the same person who had just delivered the warning, caught it and handed it back to him. 

Martin looked at him. He was older than Martin, but not by much. He would’ve been surprised if this boy was in university. He wore slacks and a fancy coat, as well as a dark blue button down, but somehow it looked cool instead of stuffy. His dark hair was mussed and his eyes were bright, somewhat like Peter’s, but without the underlying malice that made Martin’s skin crawl. The longer Martin stared at this boy, the faster his pulse got, and not from fear this time. 

The boy cracked a smile. “I’m just kidding,” he said, but it sounded sort of sad. “If you’re here, it’s already too late for you.” 

Martin chuckled halfheartedly. He wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not. 

“Here,” the boy said, reaching over to Martin’s plate. “You’re using the wrong fork. That’s the fish fork. You want the dinner fork.” He pointed at the fork that was slightly longer than the one Martin was holding. 

“Thanks,” Martin said. He turned to the boy next to him. “Hey,” he whispered. 

“Hm?”

“Are you lot tories?” 

The boy stifled what Martin could tell was a loud laugh. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’re, uh, we keep our fingers in a lot of pies, politically speaking. No real opinion.  _ I _ , personally, am definitely not a tory.” 

“Good,” Martin said. He finally took a bite of the pheasant. While it looked beautiful on the outside, it tasted quite bland. Martin was filled with a sense of disappointment and longing. 

“I’m Evan, by the way,” the boy next to him finally said. “Evan Lukas. Peter is my uncle. Or my cousin. Or my uncle’s cousin. Something like that.”

Martin smiled. “I’m Martin,” he said. “Martin Blackwood.” 

Evan tipped an imaginary hat. “Nice to meet you, Martin Blackwood.” 

Martin faked a curtsey as best he could in a dining chair. “Nice to meet you as well.” 

 

***

 

It was possible that Jon was getting used to living at the Magnus Institute. Used to, mind you. He wasn’t happy about it, did not enjoy it, and spent most of his freedom either planning his escape or resenting Elias. Or both. Jon was a good multitasker. 

Things had gotten slightly more bearable since the statement incident. He was allowed to visit Gerard (or, Gerry, apparently, to his friends. Jon was privately excited that the two of them were friends now) and Sasha in the archives, he’d been left alone in the library, albeit only for a few minutes while Rosie dealt with a “customer service issue,” but still, and he saw Elias at least once daily. This was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, Elias brought him fascinating books and puzzles and records and, best of all, statements. On the other hand, Elias was an insufferable dick-swab who had kidnapped Jon, was currently holding him hostage, had a camera in his room, and put some sort of spell on him that made it impossible for Jon to tell anyone about any of these previously mentioned things. 

Occasionally, Elias would invite Jon up to his office where they would eat dinner and talk about statements and Elias would ask him weird, probing questions and say cryptic bullshit and then Jon would respond with something either caustic and biting or indifferent and cruel in response, and neither of them would get anywhere. Jon suspected that these “talks” frustrated them both to no end, but neither of them wanted to be the one to break first and storm out. That, and the fact that Jon couldn’t storm out, cause he was, oh what was the word,  _ kidnapped _ . 

There was one other matter of discomfort in Jon’s life. Other than the constant irritation at the existence of Elias and the loss of his free will, there was the door. Michael’s door. It would appear all the time. Out of the corner of Jon’s eye, or behind him in a mirror, or just as he was turning a corner. He would wake up and see it, then rub the sleep out of his eyes and it would be gone again. Once, it had sat next to his bedroom door (which was still controlled by Elias, by the way) for two whole hours. 

It wasn’t tempting him to open it, and he hadn’t seen Michael near it since the first day. But it was there.  _ Watching _ . Just like he’d said. 

Jon wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told anyone about the door. Apparently, it didn’t show up on cameras, and from what Jon could gather about the time Michael had visited him, his mere existence disrupted technology, if it didn’t render it completely useless. 

Jon wanted to see if Michael appeared in any of the statements, but he didn’t know how to bring this up to Elias without implicating himself. 

_ Probably doesn’t matter _ , Jon thought.  _ Elias can just read my mind _ . 

That was another thing that Jon was trying to figure out. 

What exactly was going on? What was Elias? What was the Magnus Institute? What was going on with all the weird shit that happened in the statements? He wanted to talk to the head archivist, Gertrude. It seemed that if anyone knew what was going on it was her. Everyone else was either too scared, too stupid, or in on it. But she had so far managed to evade him. Or, everyone had kept him from her. Jon had found some leather-bound journals and fountain pens in the library and had taken them back to his room, where he was filling them with information, clues, and theories. 

Georgie always called them his “Conspiracy Notebooks.” Jon argued that just because one wrote in code and kept something hidden under his mattress did not mean it had to do with a conspiracy. They just often overlapped. 

Melanie and Georgie. That was probably the worst part of being kidnapped if Jon was being honest. Being away from them. As much as he tried to be a stoic badass whose only friend was the pursuit of knowledge, he missed his “best girls” as his grandmother called them. 

Jon was reading a statement, his mind swimming, feeling as though he was tipsy on honey wine when he heard the slamming of a door, and his ears began to ring, high and painful. 

“Michael,” Jon said. He looked up to see the man sitting on the edge of his desk, his long legs folded over each other and his sharp elbow resting on his needle-pointed knee. Michael was so pointed he could’ve grounded a zeppelin. 

Michael smiled his wide, impossible smile with far too many teeth. 

“Not-Archivist!” he said. “So good to see you again. I see people again so rarely. Usually, I see them and then I devour them and they’re gone… but you’re still here! Isn’t that adorable.” 

Jon scowled. “Come to kill me, then?” he asked. After he said the words, he realized it might not have been the best idea to remind some terrifying extra-dimensional being about the murder promise it made to you the last time you met. 

“No…..t….  _ Yet _ .” Michael said. “I could if you wanted me to. But I think that would make everything so dreadfully boring moving forward.” 

Jon shook his head. “I think I’m good,” he said. “You wait until you’re ready.” 

“Oh, Not-Archivist! How polite!” 

Jon shrugged. “So,” he said, putting the statement back into a file and slipping it into a desk drawer. “If you haven’t come to kill me, why are you here?” 

“I’ve just been so… fascinated, with the progress you’ve made here. So far. I mean, when I first met you, you were nothing–”

“Rude.” 

“But now… now you’re on your way to being something. Which is a bit of a shame. Things are much less enjoyable than the possibility of things. Although… the transition of nothings to things can be pleasure able on its own, that is, if it doesn’t destroy you first. There is a reason it’s, oh, generally not done with children. The whole, becoming of something. One would usually wait until they’re done…” he patted Jon’s head. “Cooking.” 

Jon glared. “Are you done?” he asked. “Cause if you’re only going to talk in riddles then I’m not really interested.” 

Michael shrugged, which looked similar to how Jon imagined a person looked when you broke their neck, and sat on the edge of Jon’s desk, flipping through an open journal with bored disinterest. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asked. 

Michael blinked. He twisted the notebook through his fingers the way that someone might twist a pencil. “I’m not talking in riddles,” he responded. 

Jon grit his teeth. “Listen. I’m not going to… to walk into your death door, so I really don’t see any reason for you to be sticking around here–”

“It’s strange,” Michael said. “I… I’m tied to this place, I think. Or, not tied. I’m not a ghost, no matter what you may suspect, Not-Archivist.” 

Jon tried to look indignant but mentally crossed that theory off of his list. 

“But I… Michael, who is me but was him when I was not him though I wasn’t him when I was not me, liked it here? Something here is… good for him. Someone? I don’t know. Having him as me makes me want to… watch. Wants to watch you. I think, Not-Archivist, that he would have liked you, and he is me and I am him so I think that means that I might like you. A little. Pity that I have to kill you.” 

“As you keep saying,” Jon said. He snatched his notebook out of Michael’s slinky-fingers. “Well, could you please not kill me somewhere else? I’m busy.”

“Mmm. Busy becoming a thing. Maybe that is not something you want to help along.” 

Jon sighed. He snapped the notebook shut. “Alright, I’ll bite. What am I…  _ becoming _ ?” 

“Jon?” 

Jon swiveled around to see Gerry standing in the doorway. The door must have unlocked without Jon hearing it over the ringing in his ear. The ringing that, he realized suddenly, had disappeared. 

“Oh,” Jon said. “Hi, Gerry.” 

“Were you talking to someone?” 

Jon tried not to look guilty. He hadn’t told anyone about Michael. He wasn’t sure why. He knew why he hadn’t told Elias. You don’t give information to your kidnapper. But Sasha and Gerry were… his friends? He guessed they were. Sasha sure acted friendly, and Gerry had told him to call him Gerry instead of Gerard, cause “he always wanted his friends to call him Gerry,” which was a pretty clear indicator of friendship, Jon guessed. Although, he supposed, they were both in cahoots with Elias, even if it was only a workplace cahootsment, and that was reason enough not to tell them. 

“Just myself, I suppose,” Jon said. 

Gerry gave him a Look. Gerry often gave Jon Looks. Jon got the feeling that Gerry didn’t trust him. The Look fell off of his face quickly enough, though, and he walked into the room and leaned against Jon’s desk. 

“Up to anything special?” he asked. 

“Am I ever?” Jon asked. 

“Got me there. Did you finish that book I lent you?” 

“Almost. It’s really good. And old, too. Where’d you find it?” 

Gerry shrugged. “I used to be, uh, keyed into the rare book scene, I suppose.” 

“Wicked.”

“I s’pose. Want to come hang out in the archives?” 

Jon almost smiled. He pushed himself away from the desk. “Why. You bored?” 

“Not bored, but you can only listen to Sasha talk about her five-year uni reunion for so long…” 

They walked down the hall and into the archives. Sasha and Gerry had been giving him lessons on archival organizing as part of his homeschooling curriculum, though he found their methods a bit suspect, as, as far as he knew, neither of them actually had library certification. Jon began to them go refile a bin of old statements, taking a few that he found interesting as he went along. About five minutes into it, he heard Sasha shriek “oh shit!” and push him down behind a stack. 

“What the hell?” Jon asked, about to pop up. Sasha’s hand stayed firmly on his crown, though, and she was surprisingly strong. 

“It’s Gertrude,” Sasha hissed. “She’s not supposed to… well… she doesn’t know you exist.” 

“And Elias has told us our jobs ride on keeping it that way,” Gerry added. “Which, if you know anything about this job, is a little troubling.” 

“Right this way, girls,” Jon heard the voice of an old woman saying. “Now, you said that  _ both _ of you saw this ghost?” 

“Well,” said another voice. “It wasn’t exactly a ghost, more like…”

“More like a monster,” a third voice jumped in. Jon’s eyes widened. He knew those voices.

“Yeah, yeah,” the second voice said. “A, um, a ghosty…”

“Fleshy…”

“Ghost flesh monster.” 

“Yeah.” 

The older voice, Gertrude, Jon assumed, spoke again, this time sounding much more interested. “ _ Flesh _ , you say?” 

Jon’s heart was beating out of his chest. This was his chance! Sasha’s hand was still holding him down, but it wouldn’t be too hard to overpower her, especially if he had the element of surprise. 

“Definitely,” the second voice said.

“Well, if you girls will follow me in here–”

“Actually,” the third voice said. “We won’t be following you anywhere.” 

Jon’s impulsivity won out. He rolled away from Sasha’s grip and popped up from the stacks, just in time to see his one of his best friends, Melanie King, pull a meat cleaver from her jacket and brandish it at an old woman. 

“Now give us Jon and no one gets hurt!” she yelled, fire in her eyes. 

Jon almost laughed. 

“Georgie!” He yelled. “Melanie!” 

“Jon?” Georgie said, turning towards him. “That was easier than I thought.” 

Jon ran out of the stacks and towards his friends. 

“Young lady,” Gertrude said. “I would ask you to please  _ put that down _ .” 

Melanie didn’t drop her cleaver. “Not until we get out of here. Safely.” 

“I’ll assure you, I have no idea who this boy is and don’t plan to impede all of you children getting out of this institute as soon as possible.” 

“How did you find me?” Jon asked, laughing halfway in relief and halfway in shock. Something tugged at the back of his mind, something he was forgetting, but he was so overjoyed by the presence of his friends that he didn’t both pursuing that line of thought. 

“Amazing detective skills,” Georgie said. 

“We’ve been going to every institute by the riverbank for the past three weeks,” Melanie deadpanned. 

“There are a shocking number of them,” Georgie said. 

“We’ve been banned from three.” 

“Well,” Jon said. “Threatening someone with a meat cleaver will do that to you.” 

“It is efficient, though,” Melanie said. 

“One guy even admitted to tax fraud,” Georgie added. 

“We didn’t even ask him about it he just did.” 

Jon laughed again. He couldn’t shake the smile off of his face. They’d searched for him. They’d threatened people for him. They’d  _ found _ him. He wanted to hug them both and never let go. 

“Speaking of which,” Georgie said. “What the fuck!” she slugged him on the shoulder. “What happened to you?! You disappeared! It’s been almost a  _ month _ !” 

“A month?” Jon repeated. “I… I didn’t realize. And I didn’t leave on purpose! I was–well. Nevermind. I’ll tell you about it later.” He realized what he was forgetting. The knowledge came down on him like a ton of bricks. “We need to leave. Now. Before–”

“Jonathan.” Elias Bouchard sounded like a cat finding an unguarded litter of baby mice. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! leave a comment if you're feeling particularly lovely! <3 
> 
> (also whomst else is fucking terrified for tomorrows ep? i know i am)


	5. Martin Is A Nerd, But We Knew That Already

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon sees a glimpse into his future, martin introduces a friend to a friend. neither of these things go well. 
> 
> TW: unreality, manipulation, mentions of death, spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that i've been mia the past few weeks. i just got finished with my internship from hell though and have nothing on my calendar for the next six weeks so hopefully i'll be getting chapters out faster.

Melanie immediately changed the trajectory of her meat cleaver. She aimed it at Elias and the smile that had been playing on her face hardened into a dangerous scowl. Or, at least as dangerous as a 5 foot 3 fourteen-year-old girl could be. 

“Who is this?” Georgie asked Jon.

Jon grimaced. “This is Elias.” 

“Big spooky bastard Elias? The one you were telling us about at school?” 

Jon rolled his eyes. “No, Georgie, a different big spooky bastard named Elias who just also happens to be connected to an institute on a riverbank!” 

Georgie threw her hands up in a ‘geez-okay’ gesture. 

“Jonathan?” Elias asked again. 

Jon grit his teeth. “These are no one. They aren’t my friends. I don’t even know them. In fact, I was just showing them out, so, if you’ll excuse me–”

Jon took a step forward but was quickly jerked back, as he realized that Georgie had grabbed his hand. 

“I think,” she said. “The question is less of who we are, and more, who do you think you are?” 

Elias blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah!” Melanie said, emphasizing the point with her cleaver. 

“We’ve been searching for Jon for… for weeks, only to find you’ve got him… locked up in your basement? And you clearly did something to his foster mum, cause when we asked her, she said ‘oh you know, dears, he’s with the nice man… oh, I can’t remember his name.’ So we’re gonna take Jon home now, and then maybe,  _ maybe _ , we won’t call the police to have you arrested for child abduction as well as general vague weirdness!” 

“Hm,” Elias said. He cocked his head, looking at Georgie as if she was a mildly interesting puzzle. “No,” he said. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Georgina.” 

Jon instinctually squeezed Georgie’s hand. 

“How,” Georgie said. “How do you know my name?” 

Elias smiled. “I know a lot of things, Ms. Barker.” He took a step forward, and adjusted his cufflinks. They were shiny and black, in the shape of an eye. He looked up at again Georgie, and, by extension, Jon, but he looked different, somehow. As if there was a shadow cast over him. His eyes were different as well. Jon watched with a mounting terror as Elias’s pupils dilated, overtaking his blue irises and bleeding into the whites of his eyes, until they were no more than shining pools of black tar. He blinked, but his eyelids did not move. A pellicle-like dark covering emerged from his tear duct and moved horizontally across his eye, snapping to the other corner before disappearing. 

“I know you are thirteen years old. I know you were born at Essex Municipal Hospital, two months early, and for a while, the doctors worried that you wouldn’t make it. But you were strong and survived. I know you have a little brother. His name is Henry. He’s seven years old. You haven’t seen him in three months. I know he lives with his foster parents, Jenny and Maura Bleeker, at 81 Guild Street, London. He’s at school right now. Sitting at his desk, working out his maths problems. He’s thinking about his friend Louise’s birthday party and what he wants to get her. And he’s thinking about you. He misses you. How sweet. He’s wearing an orange polo shirt and green shorts. His shoelaces are untied. He has a Superman backpack and is writing with a red mechanical pencil. And now he’s thinking about putting down that pencil, standing up from his desk, telling his teacher he needs to go to the bathroom, and leaving the classroom. He’s thinking that he’ll walk down the hall, take a left, and leave the school. Then, he’ll walk through the yard and he’ll lay down on the busy street. He’ll lay low so that no cars can see him. And then one of the cars will run right over him. The tire will roll over his chest and crush his windpipe. It will break his spine and he won’t be able to move. He’ll lay there, in the road, and die. Slowly. And alone. Just like your parents! And just like with them, it’ll be all. Your. Fault. Cause little Georgie just can’t help getting in trouble.”

Jon seemed to suddenly find his voice. 

“Stop,” he said, sounding hoarse. He looked at Georgie and saw a thick tear slide down her cheek. “Please.” 

Elias turned to him. “Of course, Jonathan.” Jon watched as his pupils shrank rapidly, and his eyes returned to normal. His shadow seemed to diminish, and all of a sudden he was no longer a creature, but a man once more. 

Georgie slumped against Jon as if she’d been released from a chokehold. She was shaking like a leaf and buried her head in Jon’s shoulder. Jon balked. They were not touchy-feely friends. They were sarcasm and stolen alcohol and tactfully dancing around each other’s known but never spoken traumas friends. After a moment of hesitation, Jon wrapped his arms around Georgie. He felt the presence of Melanie coming up behind the two of them, her meat cleaver lowered and her eyes still trained on Elias, glaring. 

Elias clapped his hands together. “Now, that’s enough theatrics,” he said. “Ms. King, if you’ll please give me the meat cleaver.” 

Melanie clenched her fist. “If you think–”

Jon lightly touched her arm. He sighed, and his shoulder sagged, defeated. “Melanie, please.” 

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said and handed the tool to Elias.  

“Now,” Elias said. “I hope you girls understand that I simply  _ cannot _ reward this kind of behavior. I think it’s time you leave now. You’ll have to go through the proper channels next time you want to see Jon.” 

“Proper channels?” Georgie repeated, recovered enough to pay attention. “What proper–”

“Rosie, if you’ll show Ms. King and Ms. Barker out please.” Rosie nodded and collected the still protesting girls. “As for the rest of you,” Elias said. “Back to work, please.” 

Jon glared at Elias while the rest of the room came to life once more, Elias’s words seemingly breathing life back into everyone around them. Elias stared back at Jon, his eyes dark and deceptively human. 

Jon felt someone’s hand on his shoulder, probably Sasha’s, but he shrugged them off and turned on a dime, conceding the unspoken staring contest with Elias, and marching back to his room. 

He shoved the door shut behind him and sat down against it. 

“Agh!” Jon yelled. He tugged at his uncombed, messy hair. “Michael!” he yelled. “Michael, you kettle voice bastard I know that you’re here!” He pulled off one of his shoes and threw it against the wall. It provided an unsatisfying thump. “Michael!” Jon yelled again. 

The air was filled with crackling static electricity. The hair on the back of Jon’s neck stood up. “Alright, Not-Archivist,” Michael said, melting out of the shadows, his appearance accompanied by the disembodied sound of a door closing. “There’s no need to shout.”

“I want to leave,” Jon said.

Michael cackled. “Don’t we all!” he said. He walked towards Jon and stood next to him and over him all at once. “Do you think that the fly does not wish to leave the web? Does the rat not wish to leave the lab that it is consigned to? All children trapped in a nightmare they do not understand wish for the embrace of their mothers… for the safety of the waking world. But the nightmare does not stop when you’re awake, Not-Archivist. You are just better at convincing yourself it is not real.”

“That’s not… I want to leave the institute. I can’t stand to be trapped here another minute. You have… you have your weird door. I want you to take me out of here.” 

Michael burst out into hysterical laughter. He doubled over and for a moment he was not a person but a spiraling circle, feeding into itself. He stood up and the laughter died down a bit. “No!” he said. 

Jon scowled. “What do you mean  _ ‘no’ _ ?”

“I mean, that would kill you, Not-Archivist.” 

Jon glared. “What does that matter?” he spat. “You’re always talking about killing me anyway. Why not speed up the process?” 

“You’re not ready yet.” 

Jon glared. He grabbed a book off of the nearby shelf and threw it at Michael. Michael’s body contorted so that his torso twisted artfully around the trajectory of the book. 

“Stop throwing things,” he said flatly, sounding the most human Jon had ever heard him. “Childish is not a good look on you.” His image flickered, distorting like a corrupted VHS, and then he was gone with the sound of a door slamming shut. 

“Dickhead,” Jon muttered.

 

***

 

Martin was not technically confined to the Lukas Manor, but he hadn’t left yet. 

The house was surrounded by a tall wood and dark fog and Martin felt a little lost just looking out the windows. However, he found himself quite confused on what he was actually supposed to do. Once he let go of the terror that the police were going to arrive at the manor and arrest him for murder, he was overtaken by constant boredom. 

Martin wasn’t sure how many people lived in the manor. They ate dinner together every night, but whenever Martin tried to count the number of people at the table his head would start to hurt and he would keep losing track until he gave up. Other than at the dinner table, Martin would rarely see people in the manor. Occasionally he would pass someone in the hallway, but they wouldn’t speak to him and would disappear through a doorway. Once, Martin tried to open a door that was not to his bedroom, but it was locked. 

He spent most of his time wandering about the manor. It was an endless maze of long, twisting hallways, peeling wallpaper, old fashioned oil portraits, and hidden nooks and crannies. Martin’s brain would settle into a pleasing, distant daze, as if it was filled with cellophane. He could spend hours with nothing but the soft thudding of his feet against the ancient gray carpet, Octavia scuttling on his shoulder and spinning webs in his hair. 

One day, about a week into his stay at Lukas Manor, Martin came upon a sitting room he hadn’t seen previously. He crept through the entry to find Evan Lukas sitting on an old fashioned red settee, staring at a television, his eyes wide. Martin turned to see what was on the television, but it was just static. 

“Uh,” Martin said. “Hullo.”

Evan started. He blinked and grabbed a remote next to him, then shut the TV off and turned to Martin with a dazzling grin. 

“Hi Martin,” he said. “You’re getting quiet.” 

Martin’s cheeks flushed. He looked down at his socked feet. “I s’pose.” 

“Would you like to sit?” Evan asked, scooting to the side of the settee to make room for Martin. Martin nodded and shuffled towards Evan. 

“I’ve never seen this room before,” he said, sinking down into the plush seat. 

Evan shrugged. “Yeah. This one is mine… I only show it to people I like.” He faux-surreptitiously winked at Martin. 

Martin pushed down the butterflies that threatened to flutter in his chest from Evan’s attention. Evan was magnetic, and Martin wanted to do whatever he could to make him happy, to get him to pay attention to Martin. 

“This house is like a labyrinth,” Martin said. “Or, or like a Tardis.” 

“A what?”

Martin flushed with embarrassment. “Big–it’s, um, it’s bigger on the inside? Like, you know, uh, Doctor Who?” 

“Oh. I’ve never heard of that.” 

“Uh, it’s, yeah, it’s a TV… nevermind, it’s stupid, it’s nothing.” 

Evan nodded. “Listen, Martin,” he said, his face hardening. “Are you, uh, are you alright?”

Martin’s eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Evan scratched the back of his neck, looking awkward and, Martin realized, uncomfortably human. “You’re not–you don’t feel–ack, you know what, forget it. Listen, if you need anything, just, I’m here, alright?” 

Martin cocked his head. “Yeah, sure–”

“Dear God what is that!” Evan exclaimed, cutting Martin off. He leaped from the settee, pointing frantically at the space near Martin’s hand. Martin looked down to find Octavia, who had crawled out of Martin’s sleeve and was quietly sitting next to him. 

“Oh,” Martin said, gently picking her up by the cephalothorax and placing her on his outstretched palm. “This is Octavia. She won’t hurt you. I think she’s quite cute, actually.” He held her out towards Evan, who scrambled back into a wall. For a moment he seemed more shadow than man. 

“Listen. You need to kill that thing, or, or put it out somewhere off the grounds, just get rid of it somehow, before anyone else sees it. And just, please get it away from me.” 

“Um, okay?” Martin said. He was mindlessly heading for the door. It seemed as if the room was growing smaller around him as if it was trying to push him out of it. Once he was back in the hallway, he turned to see if Evan was following him out, only to find that the door to the room was gone. Martin blinked. Okay, the door was gone. Great. Just another weird thing to add to the pile. This was his reality now and questioning it would only make his head hurt, his skin crawl, and his heart be seized by a sense of unspeakable terror. 

“Martin!” Speaking of unspeakable terror, Martin turned to see Peter Lukas walking towards him. “Where had you gone to? I looked all over and couldn’t find you.” 

Martin’s heart began to thump in his chest until he realized he could feel Octavia situated on the back of his shoulder, out of Peter’s sight. 

“Oh, I was just, you know,” Martin mumbled and made some vague gestures. Peter waved his hand and flashed Martin a politician’s smile. 

“Never mind. Get smarted up, we’re going out.” He started down the hallway, walking with brisk purpose. 

“Out?” Martin asked, scurrying after him. 

“Yes.” 

“We are?”

“That is what I just said, good job Martin.” 

“Where?” 

Peter stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to Martin, and with glee in his eyes, asked: “Have you ever heard of The Magnus Institute?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments fuel my soul!! 
> 
> (also can we talk about the newest episode??? i'm gonna kill peter lukas with my bare hands.)


	6. Reunion of the Dadstards (Dad Bastards)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys finally meet!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter took so long and is so short, it was a bitch and a half to write and i'm still not entirely happy with it but at least it exists!!

Elias didn’t come to see him after Georgie and Melanie left. Or, at least, Jon hoped they left. He had never seen Elias murder anyone, nor did he have any concrete evidence that Elias had murdered anyone, but he still couldn’t put it past him. 

Rosie turned up a few hours later with Chinese takeaway. Jon accepted it with a scowl and ate alone in his room. When Elias did not deign to see Jon the next day, Jon began to get petulant. 

What did Elias want from him? An apology? Cause that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. Jon hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, if anyone was owed an apology, it was Jon. Like, sorry for kidnapping you, sorry for putting a spell on you, sorry for locking you in a fucking basement, sorry for traumatizing your friend, etcetera and so forth. 

“I’m not apologizing,” Jon announced a day and a half into what he decided was their standoff. It was entirely possible that Elias was off on some personal business (Jon wondered if Elias had a life outside the Institute. He assumed he was married, due to the band on his finger, but he couldn’t imagine anyone crazy enough to willingly tie themselves to Elias for all of eternity), or that he had forgotten about Jon, or some other thing was keeping him occupied, but Jon dismissed those scenarios as quickly as he came up with them. The only thing worse than Elias paying attention to him was Elias not paying attention to him. 

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Jon continued. 

He glared at the camera. It stared back with its ever-present, unblinking red light. Jon resisted the urge to throw something at it. Was he that childish? Yes. Did he want Elias to know that? Fuck no. 

When no other response came, Jon sighed loudly and grabbed a random book off the bookshelf.  _ Fine, _ he thought to himself.  _ I don’t need Elias. I don’t need Gerry or Sasha or Rosie or anyone. I can have fun all on my own. _

Jon stared at the first page of the book for a while, the words being passed over by his eyes but not absorbed in his brain. He bit the side of his cheek. While Jon was not an extrovert, he was painfully social, a fact that he tried to deny for far too long. He simply could not sustain his needed level of mental stimulation on his own. 

But above all of his other traits, Jon was a stubborn ass, and he was not going to break. He stared at the page for another twenty minutes before he heard the sound of the electronic lock on his door unclicking. As nonchalantly as he could manage, he turned his head to see Elias standing in the doorway. 

“Oh, hello Elias,” Jon said. “I almost didn’t hear you come in.” 

Elias nodded. “Yes, I’m sure the first page of that book must be riveting, considering you’ve been staring at it for the better part of an hour.” 

Jon scowled and put the book down next to him. “Do you need something?” he asked. 

“It’s six,” Elias said as if that was explanation enough. When Jon met him with a blank look, he elaborated. “Dinner.” 

“Oh,” Jon said. “Right.” 

Elias sighed. “Come on then,” he said, beginning to walk down the hall. Jon scrambled off the bed and slipped his shoes on, hurrying to catch up with Elias. They walked silently through the Archives. At one point, the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck all stood at once. He turned to see the old woman, Gertrude, staring at him with hard eyes. He blinked at her owlishly. She turned back to the file in her hand, and Jon felt as if he had just been unpaused. He stumbled a bit, then continued after Elias. 

When they arrived at Elias’s office, his desk was set with two boxes. Jon sat across from Elias’s large, leather office chair and opened the box in front of him to find steaming fish and chips. Elias sat in his chair, and they both began eating in silence. After a few minutes, Elias cleared his throat. 

“So,” he said. “Your friends, Ms. King and Ms. Barker. They knew you were here?” 

“I tol’ them ‘bout–”

Elias held up a hand, cutting him off. “ _ Please _ do not speak with your mouth full.” 

Jon blushed and sheepishly closed his mouth. He finished chewing, then swallowed. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. 

“Really, who raised you,” Elias muttered. 

Jon raised an eyebrow. “How much time do you have?”

Elias’s mouth set into a thin line. Jon rolled his eyes and ate a chip. 

“I told them about your meeting with… that other guy. Peter. Before you kidnapped me.” It was not lost on Jon that the only person he could seemingly say the word “kidnap” around was Elias. 

A look Jon couldn’t quite identify passed over Elias’s face. “Hmm,” he said. “They’re both quite… strong-willed–”

“Did you kill them?” Jon asked abruptly. 

Elias looked taken aback. “What? No. I would… never.” 

Jon narrowed his eyes. “What did you do to Georgie?” he asked. 

Elias’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. “That’s for me to know, and you to figure out.” 

Jon’s eye roll was at least a nine on the Richter scale. “Every time I think I’ve heard the peak of cryptic bullshit, one of you manages to out cryptic yourselves.” 

Elias raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by  _ one of you _ ?” he asked. 

Jon smiled. “That’s for me to know, and you to... not know.” 

Elias looked as if he was about to say something when the office door burst open. 

A man that Jon had not seen before yet who looked vaguely familiar filled the entrance with his broad frame. He wore a dark blue trenchcoat and had a bushy beard, and he gave Elias a large grin as he said: “Honey, I’m home!” 

Rosie was right behind him, her face red and apologetic. “I’m sorry Mr. Bouchard, I don’t know how he got in, I tried to stop him–”

“It’s fine, Rosie,” Elias said, rubbing his face in what seemed like preemptive aggravation. “Here, take Jon back to his room and–”

“No need for that,” the other man said boisterously. “I’ve brought a friend for your young protege!” 

He turned around and pushed someone who Jon had not noticed previously in front of him. It was a kid about Jon’s age. He was a little shorter than Jon, but more filled out. He had soft, curly brown hair and pale skin dotted with freckles. He wore clothes that were fitted to him but that he didn’t seem comfortable in. He seemed made for soft jumpers and mugs of tea. As Jon noticed him, he realized that he was noticing Jon, and their eyes locked. His were startlingly, deeply green. 

Elias’s voice snapped Jon back to reality. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” 

 

  * ••



 

Peter strode across this man–Mr. Bouchard, the secretary had said–’s office and grabbed the other kid by the scruff of his shirt. He protested loudly as Peter pushed him out of the office. 

“The adults have some talking to do,” he said. He turned to the secretary. “Rosie, you’re dismissed.” 

“I’m sorry?” The secretary squawked. 

“Just, go, Rosie,” Mr. Bouchard said, sounding bereaved. 

Rosie spluttered but disappeared down the stairs nonetheless. Peter turned back to Martin and the other kid. “You two play nice,” he said, then slammed the door in their faces. 

The other kid jumped at the sound of the slamming door. “What?!” he said. He banged on the door. “What the hell? Who? What? Elias! What’s going on? What are you talking about?!” 

Martin studied the other kid. He was a bit taller than Martin, but incredibly lanky. Martin could probably pick him up. He had dark skin and darker hair and wore large, wireframe glasses. His clothes were expensive, but he wore them well. He spoke in a strange accent, Martin guessed he was trying to sound posher than he actually was. 

“Hi,” Martin said dumbly. 

The other kid stopped his banging. He turned to Martin and stared at him like he was a math problem. 

“Who are you?” he asked. “Who is… who is that Captain Haddock wannabe? What’s his business with Elias?” 

“Uh,” Martin said. He began ticking the questions off on his fingers. “I’m Martin. Martin, um, Blackwood. That’s, uh, Peter? That’s Peter Lukas. And I’m not… completely sure why he’s with Mr., er, um, with Elias. He just kind of said we were going to the Magnus Archives and I… followed him?” 

The other kid crossed his arms. “Just like that?” he parroted. 

Martin nodded. 

“What if he was going to murder you?” he asked. 

Martin shrugged. “The thought did occur to me.” 

“And yet?”

“Well, it was statistically unlikely, and I figured that if he was going to murder me, I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.” 

The kid shook his head and walked to one of the small sofas in the area outside of the office. He sat down with much aplomb. 

Martin sat down on the sofa across from him. 

“Customarily,” he said. “You would introduce yourself as well.” 

“Oh, right, yes,” the other kid said. “I’m Jon.” 

Martin waited for more elaboration, but it didn’t seem Jon was going to offer any up. 

“So,” he said, drumming his fingers on his knees. “Are you Elias’s son?”

Jon snorted. “ _ No _ ,” he spat. Then he sighed. “It’s… complicated. But I’m definitely not his son.” 

Martin nodded. “Did he show up at your house with an uncomfortable amount of knowledge about you and then take you back to his house to be his ward, possibly kidnapping you in the process, for hitherto unknown reasons?”

Jon looked at him wryly. “Well, it was my school actually. And I’m not sure if Elias actually lives here. But spot on otherwise.”

Martin guffawed. “No shit, really?” 

“I’m assuming the same thing happened to you? Unless you’re psychic, which, I suppose wouldn’t be all that surprising. It definitely wouldn’t be the strangest thing that I’ve encountered lately.” 

“Well, I’m not psychic,” Martin said. 

Jon nodded. He leaned forward and fixed Martin with an intense gaze. “So,” he said. “What are your theories so far?” 

“What?” 

Jon scowled. “Your  _ theories _ , Martin. On what’s happening! On why we were… taken. Why we were chosen, out of all people!” 

“Oh,” Martin said. He chewed on his lip. “I don’t, um, maybe it’s like… a cult thing?” 

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Like, human sacrifices?” 

“Or maybe indoctrination? I mean, Peter’s got a whole clan of… family members. And they’re all weird and quiet and stuff. It’s really spooky.” 

“Ugh,” Jon said. 

“What?” Martin asked. 

“I hate that word.” 

“What word? Spooky?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

“It’s patronizing.” 

“To… to what? The ghosts?” Martin raised his eyebrows. 

“To people who take the paranormal seriously! It makes us all seem like a bunch of whack jobs.” 

“Oh my god,” Martin said. 

Jon crossed his arms. “What.” 

Martin shook his head. “Nothing, nothing.” 

Jon glared. _ “What?” _ he asked. 

“It’s just, you’re like, a real whack job aren’t you. Like, a serious conspiracy theorist.” 

Jon’s glare deepened. “Are you telling me that you don’t believe in the supernatural after all of this? What, are you dense?” 

Martin shrugged. “I suppose it is pretty difficult to dispute,” he conceded. “Was kind of funny to watch your face get all red, though.” 

“I am not–I do not–my face–” Jon spluttered. 

Martin giggled. “Alright, don’t hurt yourself,” he said. “What are your theories, Mulder?” 

“What?”

“Like… like X-Files?” 

“Never read them.” 

“It’s not a… do none of you people watch television?” 

Jon waved him off. “I think that your cult theory holds water. But at the same time, Elias doesn’t seem the type? He seems… sane? Or, not sane, but, intelligent? He doesn’t seem like he would drink the kool-aid. Besides, aren’t Satanic cults a little, er, blase nowadays? It’s all about pyramid schemes and essential oils. Usually much more subtle than this whole thing.” 

Martin drummed his fingers on his knee. “I guess,” he said. “Okay, what about, and don’t, don’t laugh, but, vampires? Maybe?”

Jon made a face like he had swallowed a golf ball. Martin frowned. 

“What’s that face?”

“Well,” Jon said carefully. “You asked me not to laugh, so I am very consciously not laughing.” 

They began to talk over each other. 

“Okay, it seems like you’re just shooting down all my suggestions–”

“I am not shooting down your suggestions–”

“And not making any of your own–”

“You haven’t given me any room–”

“And you’re the one whole believes in the paranormal–”

“Well yes but there’s believing in the paranormal and then there’s vampires–”

“It was just a possibility!” 

“What’s going on here?” The cool voice of Elias Bouchard interrupted them. “Not fighting, I hope?” 

“No,” Martin said. 

“What were you doing in there?” Jon asked. “What were you talking about?” 

“Nosy, aren’t you?” Peter Lukas said. 

Jon ignored him. He continued to stare at Elias. 

“None of your business, Jonathan. Next time, if you really want to find out, crawl through the vents and listen in.” 

Peter laughed, but Martin wasn’t sure if Elias was joking. 

“Well,” Peter said, turning to Martin. “We best be going. Pleasure as always to see you, Elias.” 

“Hm,” Elias said. 

Martin stood. “Uh,” he said. “Good, good to meet you, Jon.” 

Jon stopped scowling at Elias long enough to turn to Martin. 

“Yes,” he said, sounding a bit distracted. Martin supposed he had gone back into his mind. “Nice to meet you as well.” 

Peter led him out of the Magnus Institute, back to the car. 

“Um,” Martin said, nervously breaking the tense silence on the way back to Kent. “I was just wondering, uh, what the point of that was?” 

“Have you ever played poker, Martin?” Peter asked. 

“No?” Martin said. 

“Me neither. No matter. I think that an important part of poker is occasionally showing your hand to your opponent, to keep them on their toes.” 

“I don’t think–”

“But it doesn’t really matter if I know how to play poker, I suppose. Because I am the very best at playing Elias Bouchard.” He smiled devilishly. “What did you think of the boy?”

“Jon?” Martin said. “Oh. I…” he blushed a bit. “I liked him, I suppose. He was odd. Intense.” 

“Yes. Those types usually are.” 

The movement of the car lulled Martin to sleep, and as he napped, he found himself dreaming of wire glasses and intense, brown eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @ipretwins!


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